


You put a fever inside me (I've been cold since you left)

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Series: Of Spitfires & Love Songs. [11]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: (and failing to do so), Alcohol Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Moving On, Post-Film, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, lonlieness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: “I’m no honourable man,” he says, a laugh still in his voice, but beginning to fade. “So please, leave me and my ghosts in peace.”





	You put a fever inside me (I've been cold since you left)

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon the song 'Haunting' by Halsey. Hope you enjoy, please let me know in the comments if you did (or if you didn't) kudos is also much appreciated x

_Cause I’ve done some things that I can’t speak,_

_And I tried to wash you away but you just won’t leave,_

_So won’t you take a breath and dive in deep?_

_‘Cause I came here so you’d come for me._

_I have to move on_ , he tells himself, repeats it like a mantra in the dead of night, injects it into every movement, every action, every thought. Farrier is _gone_ , and there’s no use in hoping, no use in fantasising that things might return to the way they were, that it would be like nothing ever changed. Because even if Farrier _is_ still alive, the man he loved will be gone by now. And the Collins that Farrier loved died the day that Farrier landed on that damned beach.

He _has_ to move on.

And he _does_ , for a while.

He moves home, back into the house he’d grown up in, and his grandmother sets him up with a nice girl, a pretty girl, a girl who he should feel privileged to be near. But he looks at her and sees everything she’s not. Her soft hands and gentle words are alien to him, her smooth edges and kindness the opposite to what he wants, what he misses. Because Collins misses rough hands leaving bruises on his hips, he misses broad shoulders and scarred, tattooed arms. He misses provocative conversation, and violent outbursts brought on by too much alcohol, ending with bleeding lips and black eyes. But despite the bruises and bleeding, he’d still have a grin on his face. _Always_.

She asks him one day when he’s going to ask her to marry him, and maybe he owes it to her. She’s done so much for him, making space for him when he needs it, not questioning him when he leaves the house for days at a time, wandering around in fields, shouting up at the sky until his voice goes hoarse. She doesn’t try to get inside his head, doesn’t stifle him, doesn’t try to understand him because she knows she can’t, knows she’ll never understand why he wakes up screaming, never understand why he refuses to swim whenever they visit the coast.

_She never asks about the brown haired man in all of Collins' old photos, a crooked grin on his face, and an arm slung around the blonde's shoulders, sometimes around his waist._

But he doesn’t love her, he _can’t_. And he feels guilty, in a way. Because it’s not fair to her, to lead her on like this. To act to all the world like a loving, future husband, when in reality he’s nothing of the sort. He’s a heartbroken _shell_ of a man, waiting on a lover who will _never_ return to him, with whom he’d shared something forbidden, something laced with sin and immorality.

So he locks away everything that reminds him of Farrier. All the pictures, the notes they’d send each other, the letters. He hides the books Farrier had given to him, the spare ID tag he’d slipped into Collins’ pocket one sunny afternoon.

The charred remains of a spitfire's tail they’d found rusting in the sand on Dunkirk beach.

And it stops, _Farrier_ stops. He stops invading Collins’ dreams, his shrapnel-filled ghost taunting him, blaming him for his death. Collins stops living in old, dusty memories, where he's young, and the great burn that marrs his neck is not there yet. Where Farrier teases him relentlessly, only to lie him down in the evening and sing endearments into his skin. He starts to live again, putting on a brave face, celebrating birthdays and spending time with his family as though he’s the same man as he had been in 1939, doing his best to be this loyal, picture-perfect man for the woman that wants to marry him.

But he never does get down on one knee for her, never does find a nice, sparkling ring for her, never does ask her to become his, forever and always.

Because Farrier shows up in the village one day, older and paler, but the same man, and _definitely not_ a ghost. Collins is sitting alone, in the back of the local pub, when he feels it, feels eyes on him, burning into him in a way impossible to explain. His head jolts up, and Farrier’s eyes are locked onto his, filled with the same subtle amusement, the same snark and intelligence. A smile pulls at his chapped lips, and he walks at a leisurely pace to Collins’ table. The blonde can’t help but notice the limp in Farrier’s step, and new scars adorning his clean-shaven face, and all the progress he’d made over the last few weeks is gone.

Farrier’s back, staining his entire being, changing him back into the man he'd been fighting _so hard not to be_.

But, nevertheless, the man he _knew he was_.

Farrier’s fingers are clasped white-knuckled around a pint, and he takes a long drink, eyes fixed on Collins, eyebrow raised in challenge. “I hear you have a bird now,” Farrier states, and of course, of course that would be the first thing he’d want to talk about. “What’s her name?” Collins would feel threatened by the questioning, but he knows Farrier, knows all of his tells. So when the brunette starts picking at the splintered wood of the table, Collins knows he’s fishing, trying to establish what the situation is, how it might work to his advantage.

 _Whether you’re still his_ , hisses a tiny voice in the back of his mind.

 _I’m not_ , he asserts.

 _You are_ , it cackles,  _always have been, always will be._

He ignores it this time.

“Jane.” He replies, short and clipped, fingernails digging painfully into his palms.

“She’s good to you, I’d bet,” Farrier says, as if testing how the words sound, finding flaws and making adjustments. He leans forward, and Collins’ heart lurches. “The real question is, _do you love her?_ ” He asks, and Collins is caught between wanting to break the man’s jaw and kiss him senseless. He does neither, and says nothing. His silence is his response, and Farrier seems to like what he hears. “Poor girl.” and Collins is going to leave, going to walk away and slam the door, on this conversation, _on Farrier_ , but he holds steady, remembering himself, remembering that this is what Farrier wants. He wants him to get angry, to burst open and let him see all his secrets.

Collins wants to let him in _oh so desperately_ , but knows that he can’t.

“I’m going to let her go before it gets too late,” Collins says, more to himself than to Farrier. He looks up from the sticky table, a sudden rush of confidence and bravery washing over him. “Why are you here?” Farrier grins, amused. But it’s bitter, and cold and everything Farrier isn’t.

“Denial doesn’t suit you, Collins,” He pauses, taking another drink before finishing. “Tell me, when you fuck her, do you see me?” Collins’ knee slams into the underneath of the table, and he sends as murderous a glare as he can muster at the brunette, teeth bared in a silent snarl. He considers whether he should retort, fight fire with fire. But that strategy had never gotten him anywhere. Farrier only got provocative like this when he knew he was right, and, Collins concedes, this is no exception. But he won’t let Farrier in now, he won’t fall that easily. So he drains the last of his glass, pulls on his coat, and stands from his seat.

“ _Goodbye_ , Farrier.” He says, turning and walking away, slamming the door behind him.

 _Slamming the door on Farrier_.

But the door doesn’t stay closed, because Farrier doesn’t leave the village. Collins has no idea where the man is sleeping - winter is rolling in, and it snows more often than not, so he _must_ have taken up board somewhere - but tries not to think too hard about it. Collins tries to convince himself that its a coincidence that the other villagers become suspicious of him after Farrier’s arrival, that they become more distant, shying away from him more and more, looking at him oddly when he walks through, whispering conspiratorially to each other. It's a blessing, in a way, to be left alone. But soon curiosity turns to fear, and fear to hatred, and it gets exhausting. It inevitably winds its’ way into his family, culminating in his brother confronting him one quiet Sunday evening, the pair of them stood outside their grandmother's house smoking. Asking who this Englishman is, why he seems to follow Collins round the village, why he speaks to no one, _why he’s here_.

Collins is drunk, and exhausted, he’s sleeping badly and Jane has gone to stay at her parent’s under the pretence of giving him ‘ _space_ ’. He _needs_ to let it out, cleanse himself of all this again, _of Farrier_.

So, he’s honest.

“He’s a ghost,” Collins says, voice rasping, smoke trailing from between his lips. He watches it for a moment, watches it curl and fade in the cold night air. He turns to look at his brother with a bitter smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, flicking his cigarette away into the damp grass. And he sees him there, out in the darkness, standing on the pathway, Farrier’s shadowy, lone figure barely visible under the single street light. “Atonement, brother,” and then Farrier is gone; Collins looks up at the dark, empty sky and sighs. “ _Atonement_.”

Collins leaves without another word, without another look, and returns to his own, dark, empty home. It’s cold inside, and he should light a fire. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps himself warm with whiskey, tears running uncontrollably down his face, talking to himself aloud, talking to Farrier. Telling him to leave, to let him be. Asking for it to end, asking for _forgiveness._

 _Atonement, brother_. His words haunt him, only now they’re said in Farrier’s voice.

Collins screams, and shatters the whiskey bottle against the wall.

He falls asleep there with bleeding palms and bloodshot eyes.

(What he doesn’t know is that Farrier is standing on the other side of the wall, listening to all of it, fighting the urge to break down the door, to fix everything. But he can’t, not yet. So he listens to Collins cry and wail, inhales sharply at the sound of a pained scream, followed by shattering glass. There’s guilt on his face as he walks away again into the darkness.)

Collins doesn’t wake ’till gone noon the next morning, and spends several minutes studying the wounds on his hands, pulling out the thick shards of glass, picking at the dried blood. His head is on fire, but he stands nonetheless, cleaning and bandaging his wounds, before collapsing onto his unmade bed.

He doesn’t cry, now, in the pale light of day. Because he _can’t_.

He chain-smokes himself through the afternoon, until the sun has long since died, and darkness is sweeping in over the top of them. He ignores three people knocking on his door. First, his brother, asking if he’s okay, saying that some neighbours heard some commotion the night before. Next, Jane, who he nearly opens the door for, but thinks better of it. He tells her to go find herself a proper man, and apologises for everything he's done. She cries and curses at him through the heavy door, but he remains silent. Because the guilt has subsided, now, helped along by his blinding headache, and the growing selfishness and anger brought on by Farrier. Finally, his grandmother knocks, hard and loud, and she’s shouting at him, telling him to apologise, to marry Jane like a honourable man, to just, _for the love of God, stop this._

Collins laughs, loud and bitter, ignoring it when tears slip from the corners of his eyes, the loneliness seeping back in, Farrier’s voice in his head again.

“I’m no honourable man,” he says, a laugh still in his voice, but beginning to fade. “So please, leave me and my ghosts in peace.” He leaves it at that, listening to her argue and protest for nearly half an hour, before she gives in, not even saying goodbye as she leaves. Collins prefers it that way.

The sun sets, and finally, Collins stands. His headache has faded, and for a brief second, his mind is clear, and focused on only one thing:

_Farrier._

It should feel like some kind of failure, he muses as he pulls on his coat, slips his key into his pocket and laces his boots, to have come full circle. To have gone from thinking only of Farrier, to everything but, and back to just him. But it feels good, and Collins, for the first time since 1940, feels like himself again, but he’s still yearning for something, for _someone_.

So he goes out, and makes his way straight up to the fields, empty now of any crops, harvest having come and gone, and a bitter winter settling in, coating everything in a thin layer of ice. He finds a spot, its cold and dark, but its quiet, serene. Its _perfect_. He knows Farrier will come looking for him, the man follows him everywhere, after all, so there he waits, cigarette dangling from long fingers, eyes clamped shut, _at peace._

He flicks his cigarette away at the sound of footsteps trudging through the mud, dead leaves crunching softly. He waits until the footsteps slow to a stop before turning, and his chest tightens at the sight. Farrier’s standing with an expression that would be unreadable even in the light of day, and Collins wants to run with him, wants to leave with him now. He’s got a bag slung over his shoulder with all his important belongings in, and has already made plans about selling the house, it all just depends on this, on them, on now. A spark of hope bursts into life when his eyes catch onto a similar bag at Farrier’s feet.

“What did you do to your hands?” Farrier asks, and Collins could laugh, could cry at the absurdity of it all, instead, he smiles, small and shy.

“I think ye probably know,” He replies, and any other man might feel embarrassed about being exposed for spying in this way, but Farrier doesn’t, because in some strange way, it was his duty, to keep Collins alive. “Would ye stop, if I asked ye. Would ye ever stop?” He asks, and now Farrier looks guilty, kicking at the sodden ground beneath him.

“If you meant it, yes,” he says, pausing briefly to swallow a lump in his throat. Talking about things like this had never really been Farrier’s forte, but Collins won’t let him off now. This is too important. There is too much to be said. “But I think it might kill me.” The admission is crippling, both at the revelation that Farrier needs him just as much as Collins does, and also that it would kill Collins too. To know Farrier was out there, alive and well and in love with him, but forcing himself to live a life without him.

It wouldn’t be a life.

“I tried to move on from ye, I had to. I’m sorry,” It’s becoming more difficult to speak, but Collins won’t fail now, he has to get this out he has to say it all. “I couldn’t keep waitin’ on a ghost.” Farrier nods, as if in understanding, and maybe he does, and maybe he doesn’t. But it doesn’t really matter.

“Is that what I am? A ghost?” Farrier laughs to himself, and its as though he’s testing a theory again, testing the situation, testing _Collins_.

“It’s hard, ye know. Bein’ in love with a dead man.” Collins blurts, and its too much, all of this. But before he can back out, Farrier replies.

“I know it is.” And for a moment, the mutual understanding between them is enough to forget about everything else. About Collins trying to wash Farrier out of his life, trying to change who he was to fit in again, to remove the flame Farrier had ignited in him. About Farrier showing up again and tearing it all back down, reminding Collins who he really was, and isolating him from his family in the process. Collins just stands there, stunned for a moment. He’d never considered how it must have been for Farrier, alone in those camps for all those years, thinking Collins had drowned out there at Dunkirk, or got shot down, dying alone in flames without Farrier there to protect him.

The dam breaks, and Collins curses as hot tears stream down his cheeks. “I never stopped, Farrier,” He states, voice shaking but words strong and meaningful, Farrier is struck by them, and he shifts on his feet, as though he’s straining at invisible chains, wanting to reach out to Collins, to take him away. “I don’t think I can.” And _there_ it is, _there’s_ the line. Farrier makes a small growling noise, and closes the distance between them, pulling Collins’ into a tight embrace, the pair of them breaking down into harsh sobs, leaning against each other for support. But its good, its raw and real. It's a homecoming, a revelation. When it does subside, Farrier keeps his arms around Collins’ waist, while the blonde raises a hand to Farrier’s stubbled cheek, the brunette studying Collins’ face, eyes fixated on the pink scars peeking out from beneath his collar.

“Run away with me?” Farrier asks, eyes soft and open, bare of the anger and coldness Collins had witnessed in the pub. _This_ , he realises, _this_ is the Farrier he fell in love with all those years ago. This is the Farrier who’s worked his way into every aspect of Collins’ life, who’s made himself a permanent home in Collins’ mind. Collins doesn’t even have to hesitate about his reply.

“Yes, _anywhere_.” Farrier kisses him, and when they pull apart, Collins is overcome by a serenity he can’t describe, so he slips his hand into Farrier’s.

He takes one look back at the village; his past. Then back at Farrier, who’s scarred face is smiling brightly back at him through the darkness; his future.

_They run._


End file.
